Kneeling in the Sand
by mickeylover303
Summary: Greg has this thing about not dating coworkers. Slash.


You have this thing about not dating your coworkers.

Or so you tell yourself the moment you realise you find it hard to look Nick Stokes in the eyes. Flirting with Sara doesn't count. It's harmless and not reciprocated. She's always been beyond your reach, like so many of the people in your life, and after a few years it's a little easier to ignore. If only for the reason that your attention is shifted to Nick, which ultimately proves more difficult to handle than your attraction to Sara.

Hypothetically, if the situation ever presents itself, the day where Nick or anyone else you keep at arm's length asks about your sexuality, you won't hesitate to say you're straight. As much as you think you are though, you personally believe sexuality is fluid. Changing in a manner that mostly applies to everyone except yourself, you acknowledge you're too much of a coward to admit to anything else. Still, you try not to categorise yourself because even at the age of twenty-nine, you can't exactly define who you are and have pretty much come to the conclusion there's something about you and not your sexuality that makes your relationships come down to either sex or rejection.

It's relatively new, really, this lust or whatever it is you have for Nick. He's a far cry from the guy you initially thought him to be, not as suave or confident as the Nick you looked up to when you transferred to the lab. At first, the discovery makes what you feel for him less inane, the idea of the two of you being together in some way or another more tangible. However, the more imperfections you discover, ironically, the more unobtainable he seems to become. Too removed from you, too normal, and despite the fact you're trying to tone it down, suddenly you wish you didn't have a habit of standing out so much.

You haven't had a date in years, haven't been laid in months, and you find it oddly comforting to blame it on something else besides the fact you're making the transition from the lab to the field. You know it's not Nick's fault that it's hard for you not to think about him and can't figure out why you can't stop. It's only that much harder since you have to work with him, and it seems like he's everywhere you go. It doesn't help that you're nervous around him, either. Even more so than usual, and you're angry at yourself for being so damn uncomfortable and fumbling your words when it's just the two of you.

Swallowing, you find yourself tense and staring dumbly at the soft smile sent your way. He nods at you when you close your locker door, tells you to take it easy, and leaves without looking back. Watching him retreat, you want him to turn around, want him to apologise for stringing you along and push you against the hard metal of the lockers, kiss you and give you the chance to return the favour.

The thought stays with you on the drive home from work, and your cell phone rings when you open the door to your apartment. You almost think it's Nick, need to think it's Nick because you're silly enough to get your hopes up in order to indulge in some deranged fantasy in your head. Instead, it's a number with no name that takes you a few seconds to place.

It belongs to Nate -- Neil -- something that starts with an N, and the irony begins to nag at you because it hits a little too close for comfort.

You admit you don't remember his name, but he remembers yours and is more than happy to fill the gaps in your memory when he hears your voice. He's one of the first people you met when you moved to Vegas, though it didn't take long for the two of you to drift apart. Your relationship with him is on and off, but somehow his face lurks behind those seven numbers in your contact list. Still, you're in the right kind of mood to take advantage of the opportunity. The conversation ends in two minutes and in less than thirty, you find yourself spending the rest of your night off in the darkness of your room.

The top of his head tickles your cheek. Hair a little too light, too long, but you're too concerned with how flexible you forgot you could be to dwell on the difference. You hold his his gaze for a moment, his eyes a rich hazel that aren't dark enough to be brown, and he gives you a shrewd and feral smile. Maybe he knows you're thinking of someone else, but you justify it because he's probably not thinking of you either, and really, you can't bring yourself to care less when he twists your nipple.

Hard.

Quickly, he puts his hand over your mouth because he remembers you tend to be loud, and yeah, maybe you both get off on the idea. Your nails, blunt though obtrusive, slide down broad shoulders and leave marks along a well muscled back. He hisses your name, moans in some combination of pain and ecstasy, and grabs your wrists. You almost expect it, so you don't complain when he turns you over without a second thought, flat on your stomach and face squished into the sheets you're going to force yourself to wash tomorrow. You close your eyes and try to concentrate on the warm breath on the back of your neck. The smell of smoke and ash, it reminds you of a bad habit you're not quite ready to drop, and you think of the nearly empty pack of cigarettes tucked away neatly between your mattress and box spring.

It's easier to pretend like this, easier to ignore the light brown hair and more green than brown hazel eyes. You clench your muscles in anticipation but try to relax when he begins to slide in slowly, cautiously, almost like you've never done this before. You know it's been a while since you've been with a guy, and you'd appreciate the consideration more if you weren't in such a hurry. So you urge him on, talk dirty in the way you know he likes so you can stop the tremors that mean you're getting close. Because his voice is low, underlined with a subtle twang that's painfully familiar yet achingly foreign, and you're not sure if being on the verge of an orgasm is enough to overpower the fact that it's not Nick.

His hand is around your cock, stroking eagerly, and his chest is pressed firmly against your back as the two of you rock on the bed. It squeaks out of harmony with your movements, one or two beats behind the pace of skin slapping upon skin. Your breathing is harsh, erratic, and god his voice is smooth, reassuring in a way it shouldn't be, and it makes you even more grateful you can't see him because you're almost willing to believe those cliched sweet nothings being whispered in your ear.

You gasp, loudly, and bite your lip in an effort not to make too much noise. Mrs. Davidson is on the floor right below you, and you're sure she won't appreciate your screams in the middle of the night.

He's heavy when he finally sags against you, a weight that could possibly have a deeper meaning if you cared to look into it. You're shaky, riding out the aftermath and waiting for the shuddering to stop. It makes you feel claustrophobic, almost trapped, but you decide you don't mind as long as you get to revel in the warmth of another body against yours. There's still a little friction between the two of you as he nuzzles his face against your shoulder. He makes a noise in contentment, sending a deep vibration throughout your body that travels all the way down to your toes.

For a while, he plays with your hair, the soft curls at the nape of neck you try to hide with gels and pomades because you think it makes people not take you seriously.

You're sticky, and the smell of sex is almost overwhelming. Supine in your own semen like you've pissed yourself, your stomach pressing against it, you can feel a little more on your back. A trail slides down your legs as he pulls out. You hope it's just the residue from the condom, but despite what you know through your field of work, you're too numb to ask if it broke.

He gets off, not bothering to face you, and starts to nod off because it's late. You roll over so you're lying on your back, cold and covered in enough bodily fluids that it makes you think of a crime scene in some seedy motel room. You don't know how much time has passed but know it's enough that you can hear him snoring. Nowhere near quiet, yet it doesn't bother you as much as you want it to. You can't help but think it's almost comforting, but you're too ashamed to admit that it feels better than spending another night alone.

He'll be gone in the morning, somewhere in between when you go to sleep and before you wake up. The arrangement is impersonal but works. You won't see him again. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully no time in the near future, but then again, something in you is desperate enough to want to so you're glad you still have enough dignity to push that feeling aside.

If not now, then eventually you're going to convince yourself it's okay. It's okay to want to keep your eyes closed until you fall asleep because you're too afraid to open them. It's okay that you don't want to see this charade fall apart because the best you can do is settle for what's safe. Just a little bit longer, a few more lies to cover what you want to deny, and you won't have to pretend anymore.

But you're not that deluded to think this will be the last time since it's far from the first. You're disillusioned and well aware of your own shortcomings, but thinly veiled assurances are something you can live with. So you tell yourself again that this encounter and whatever happens to take place in the future is okay.

After all, you still have that thing about not dating your coworkers.

* * *

_It's been what--almost eight years since I've opened this account. Goodness gracious._

_Anyways, apparently I've been too busy to indulge in my favourite pastime and without my computer for a few months. However, plenty of time to start and/or work on (including a one-shot that just won't die) but not finish ideas until this thing came along. I was reading something, a sentence prompted an idea, and I was done._

_Surprisingly (or really, fortunately), this didn't take long to write, but it was supposed to be a fluffy Nick/Greg...thing that magically turned kind of...not fluffy. Subtle and not too heavy, I hope. Honestly, there are no words. Although, it was a good exercise to experiment with this pov. Well, interesting at the very least because I broke my resolution that I would stay away from writing anything close to szmex. I guess angst with a self-deprecating Greg is the exception, but knowing my luck I'm probably going to be banned because of it._


End file.
